


A Safe Place

by perilous_circumstance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Damaged Draco, Damaged Hermione, Draco is Stoic, Everyone is tired, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione is a badass, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Post Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Safehouses, War Fic, dramione - Freeform, redeemed!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilous_circumstance/pseuds/perilous_circumstance
Summary: Life has become a series of battles. Hermione is just surviving, but godamn she is exhausted. Throw in countless shabby safehouses, too much firewhiskey and Draco bloody Malfoy and life couldn't get much worse.





	1. Chapter One

**Somewhere In Wales**

The _vulnero_ curse had glanced off her ribs, leaving behind a half-inch wide gash that began just beneath her left breast and wrapped around her torso. The healing spells had taken care of it, but the skin was taut and any movement stretched the wound uncomfortably. A dull ache was now spreading throughout her extremities and no amount of firewhiskey seemed to lessen the pain.

Neville had built a fire in the hearth and the flames made shadows dance merrily across the walls of the small kitchen. Hermione dug the palms of her hands into her eye sockets, willing herself to stay awake. Sleep was never pleasant, these days. Too many dreams.

Seamus and Neville sat across the table from her, talking energetically about some Quidditch match in France they had been able to pick up on the wireless earlier in the evening. The sound of their voices and the heat from the fire made her head pound, which was exactly what she needed at this moment, wasn’t it? Oh Merlin, could she never catch a break?

The door from the main portion of the house swung open and Malfoy walked in, his silver-white hair hanging lankly in his eyes. Hermione thought she detected a slight limp in his stride, but she was so used to seeing injuries that she immediately forgot it. All she could think about now was the slow seething hatred that was always there when he entered her realm of vision. Perfect. Her injury hurt, she was exhausted, her head was pounding and now she was burning up with having to share air with that insufferable git.

She sat her teacup down on the table with more force than was needed. This caused the two men across the table from her to look up. On seeing Malfoy in the room, Seamus grimaced. Neville glanced from Hermione to the man standing at the sink and then back, rising slightly from his chair.

“Hermione -”

“Kill any Muggles lately, Malfoy?” 

Draco did not turn around. He reached across the counter and grabbed a clean waterglass. Hermione seethed.

“I asked you a question, ferret.”

Neville fluttered his hands in the air nervously, trying to catch her eye. She ignored him, levering herself off her chair so that she stood beside the table. Her hands clutched at the edge. She was trembling.

“And I heard you, Granger. I just decided that you didn’t deserve an answer.” 

His voice was flat. The t-shirt he wore stretched tight across his stiff shoulders.

“Well then, answer this one. What are you doing here?”

Draco sighed, sat the glass back on the counter, and turned to face her. His gray eyes were rimmed in red and there were dark bruises beneath them, marring his porcelain skin. He looked like shit. Didn’t they all, Hermione thought wryly.

“What am I doing here? I’m getting a fucking glass of water, Granger.”

Hermione smirked as she rounded the table, stalking towards the taller man.

“What are you doing _here_? This isn’t your fight. In fact, if I remember correctly, you’re supposed to be somewhere else right now. Did you lose your way, Malfoy? Or did you completely forget about this?”

As she spoke she closed the distance between them. She grabbed his left arm and turned the inside up into the light, exposing the Dark Mark where it sat black against his skin.

Draco yanked his arm from her grasp, unconsciously pressing his arm against his side. He glared at her.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Granger, I’m on your side now.”

He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to stretch the taut muscles, and sighed.

“As you bloody well know, I’ve proved myself time and again. I saved your precious Potter’s ass on numerous occasions, so don’t get all high and mighty with me. I’m not in the mood.”

Hermione ignored him, her eyes flashing. The blood was pounding in her ears now and she couldn’t feel the pain in her side or the pain in her head. The anger surged through her, burning away the exhaustion - making her feel more alive than she had in weeks. She had always been more herself when she had a mission. When out fighting or working for The Order she never thought about anything but her task, everything else faded into the background where she didn’t have to think about it. She could blindly focus all her energies on the mission at hand. And right now, at this moment, her mission was to make Draco Malfoy admit that he didn’t fucking belong here.

“What’s the matter, Malfoy? Couldn’t hack it as a Death Eater? I’m sure your situation wasn’t too desirable after your botched attempt at murdering our headmaster. I’m sure The Dark Lord wasn’t too happy with his Slytherin Princeling after that debacle. Not to mention your father. Must have been rough when Lucius chose The Dark Lord over your mother and you. Is that it? Is your appearance on The Order’s doorstep to be chalked up to daddy issues?”

Draco’s face was turning a violent shade of red as he stepped forwards menacingly. Hermione stood her ground, oblivious to the strangled noise Neville made behind her. All she could see was Draco, those white-hot gray eyes and his burning cheeks. He was standing so close, the length of his body inches from her own. 

“You leave my parents out of this, Mudblood.”

The instant the word left his mouth the world stopped. It had been so long since anyone outside of the battlefield had used it towards her that Hermione was momentarily stunned. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears as she stared up at Malfoy. He stared back, the color having drained almost instantaneously from his face. Hermione thought distractedly that it was strange how his face could go from crimson to colorless in under a second. And then she drew her arm back and punched him in the eye.

The world exploded back into her consciousness as Neville and Seamus leapt from their chairs. There was yelling. She could hear yelling. It took a moment to realize that some of it was coming from her, as Neville pinned her arms to her side and bodily lifted her into the air. Seamus had thrown himself against Malfoy, knocking him into the wall before he could move towards her. Hermione screamed obscenities, kicking her legs futily against the air as Neville dragged her from the room. The last thing she saw before the door swung shut was Malfoy’s face as he stared murderously after her.

\--

Hermione’s room in this particular safe house was almost exactly the same as every other room she used in every other safe house. Bare floor, bed and small table. Sometimes there would be a moldy print hanging on the wall or a threadbare chairl. But they all were shabby and damp and cold.

She often thought longingly of her room at home or of the dorms of Hogwarts. Of plush carpets and thick blankets, dark wood paneling and colorful portraits on the walls. And then she would berate herself, because thoughts like that led down dark paths. It was why she hated to sleep.

They had been at this safe house for only a night. Somewhere in the wilds of Wales - often they didn’t even know exactly where they were, portkeys were thrown at them in the heat of battle and off they went. She hadn’t been to this particular one for a long time, months perhaps. It all ran together. 

Before coming here, the four of them had been out on guerrilla missions for The Order. Snatch and grab missions, Harry called them. Apparating somewhere, causing a lot of fuss, maybe killing a few Death Eaters and then moving on to the next target. It was exhausting work, constantly on the move. Hermione had been doing guerrilla work for the better part of a year, stopping every three or four weeks at a safe house for a bit to regroup. She couldn’t remember how many bedrooms just like this one she had stayed in since the war began in earnest just under two years ago. It was too many.

After Neville had dragged her from the kitchen and deposited her none-too-gently onto the parlor floor, Hermione had fled upstairs. She stormed into the bathroom they all shared and stuck her head under the bathtub faucet, letting the icy water soak her face and hair. Once she had cooled down she had escaped to her room, shutting the door and locking it. She could hear the others moving around downstairs, someone came upstairs and opened and shut a door down the hall. The shower came on, a dull rushing sound accompanied by the creaking of old pipes in the walls. 

She lay fully clothed on top of her blankets, her body sinking into the worn mattress. Her side was hurting again. And her head. She closed her eyes, squeezing them so tight that little bursts of light bloomed behind her eyelids. Malfoy. It had been months since the last time she’d seen him. He had been with another group, doing similar work to what she’d been doing in another part of the country. It was sheer bad luck that they’d ended up portkeying to the same safe house. 

The last time they’d had to stay under the same roof, Harry had tried to talk her down out of the hysteria of anger that always enveloped her whenever Malfoy was around. But it did no good. She couldn’t reconcile herself to this new Malfoy. This redeemed Malfoy. She snorted. She couldn’t believe it. And she couldn’t see how everyone else did.

When she felt herself drifting off she sat up, pressing her back against the wall at the head of her bed. She picked up the book on the table next to her and opened to her last place. It was late, but she couldn’t let herself sleep. Not until she absolutely had to. 

\--

**Outside Of Leeds**

Hermione threw down her cards, a triumphant grin stretching across her face. 

“Beat that you miscreants!”

Everyone groaned, placing their own hands face up across the table. They watched dejectedly as she shoveled the chips from the center of the table into a pile in front of her seat. Who knew she’d be so good at poker? When the Muggle-born Auror had taught them during a particularly dreary safe house sojourn last year, she had scoffed slightly at the game. But she’d found she was a bit of a natural. 

She was sitting in the parlor of yet another safe house, after yet another few weeks out in the field snatching and grabbing. The wound to her side didn’t bother her anymore, and she’d been lucky this go - no injuries. Her bad luck had stuck around in the form of a certain silver-haired prat, but he had appeared that afternoon and gone straight upstairs. He hadn’t been down since.

The rain was pounding against the windows, but inside it was warm. Neville had built another fire and Hermione was enjoying the company of old friends. Other than Seamus and Neville, Hermione was happy to find Hannah Abbott and Parvati Patil in residence. The five of them spent most nights in the parlor, playing games of chance or listening to the wireless when they could get it to pick up international stations.

Seamus was shuffling the cards, letting them fall from one hand to the other.

“Oh shit, I forgot to mention what happened on mission yesterday,” he said.

They all waited expectantly as he began to deal. After laying down the correct number of cards in front of everyone, he sat the remainder down on the table and looked up.

“We got Lucius.”

No one spoke. Hermione cocked her head to the side.

“What?”

“We got Lucius. Killed him. Some green Auror, young kid - not much older than us. Lucius threw a Killing Curse and he was able to dodge and threw one right back. Hit him square in the chest. Beautiful!”

Hermione was gratified to see that hers was not the only mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Lucius Malfoy?!” Parvati asked, her voice rising into a shriek.

“Yeah, Lucius Malfoy. Who do you think I meant?”

Seamus rolled his eyes.

Neville let out a soft whistle, his eyes rising to the ceiling. 

“Does _he_ know?”

Seamus grunted and shifted in his seat. 

“Yeah, I’d say he does. He was brought out to identify the body. You know, to make it formal and all before they sent the corpse to the Isle.” 

The Ministry of Magic had decamped to the Isle of Wight, a shadow of its former splendor but still active in a limited capacity. All Death Eaters, alive or dead, were taken there.

Hermione felt a flash of something like pity. As much as she hated Malfoy, the idea of him standing over his own father’s body made her uncomfortable. 

“How was he?” she asked quietly.

Seamus shrugged.

“Cold as stone. Took one look at him and said ‘Yes, that is Lucius Malfoy’ and then turned away. Bit hardhearted if you ask me -- the bastard was still his dad.”

Hannah and Parvati were making sympathetic noises, their eyes trained to the ceiling. Neville and Seamus began talking about what on earth it was that the Ministry was doing with Death Eater corpses. Hermione sat there, staring at her cards. Despite there being several rooms and an entire floor between them, she was profoundly aware of Malfoy’s presence overhead. 

\--

She was coming out of the bathroom, blotting her wet curls with a towel, when she heard it. Everyone else was still downstairs - sounded like someone had brought out the firewhiskey - and above the noise of their laughter she could hear it. Someone was crying. No, not crying - sobbing. It was such a wild sound, as if each sob was being physically torn from the person and the pain was unbearable. Guttural, primitive. 

Hermione found herself moving down the hall towards the noise, until she was standing in front of a door. She brought her hand up and pressed the palm against the wood. She knew who it was - how could she not? - but it was so strange. So strange to hear him, to hear those sounds coming from him. What was she doing here? 

She almost pulled her hand away and retreated to her room. She almost left him there. But he was choking now, his sobs coming harder and faster. He sounded as if it hurt so much, and Hermione knew. She knew what this felt like. She had wanted to cry like this so many times in the last two years. After every death, after every time she cast the Killing Curse on another human being and watched the life drain from their eyes. To let it all go. To pull her hair and sob. And now, listening to him, she was fascinated. What would it feel like? Oh Merlin, she needed to see.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had pushed against the door. Half expecting it to be locked, she almost fell into the room when it swung open. It was a room just like hers, bare and empty. A bed sat centered against the far wall and over the top of it, in the space between the bed and wall, she saw that familiar head of silvery hair. 

Draco sat with his knees to his chest, his head resting atop them. His arms covered his head, his fingers clenching and unclenching as the sobs wracked his lean frame. He looked so pitiful, so small. The enormity of what he had seen today hit Hermione like a ton of bricks. He had seen his father’s corpse. The man who raised him, who gave him life, lying in the dirt like so much trash. Nevermind who Lucius Malfoy was to the rest of the world, he had been Draco’s father. Hermione felt that old part of her, that part who had wanted to see something good in everyone, come bubbling to the surface. It made her take a step forward, and then another, and another, until she was crouched beside him.

She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and touched his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t stop crying. She touched him again, putting more pressure against his shoulder. Nothing.

“Malfoy.”

The sobs were still coming hard and fast, his body spasming against the wall behind his back. She could see the wet stain his tears made on his trousers. He wasn’t responding to her, no matter how many times she said his last name or touched his shoulder, his arm, his leg. Finally, the sobs tearing through her heart until she was desperate for him to stop, she reached out and let her palm settle onto his hair.

“Draco.”

He choked, a sob stopping suddenly, his whole body going stiff. She pulled her hand back as he raised his head.

He stared at her blankly, no malice, no emotion at all. She sat back on her feet and watched him. Their eyes met and she held his gaze, waiting. She could imagine she could hear the beating of his heart, how fast it must be beating. She imagined what her heart would feel like if she ever allowed herself this sort of release.

His eyes were bloodshot, his skin flushed and raw. Tear tracks stained his cheeks. Hermione felt a pang of guilt when she saw the fading bruise around his right eye where she had punched him weeks before. A florid red line marked where she had broken the skin on his cheekbone.

She didn’t even realize she had moved until she saw her hand reaching out towards him. Her fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek, dragging softly across the place where she had hit him. 

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. She didn’t know if she was apologizing for hitting him or for what he had been through today. It seemed like she should for both. It seemed right. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes blinking once before he grabbed her hand and dragged her towards him.

“I don’t want your pity, Granger.”

He hissed the words in her ear. He had pulled her so that their shoulders touched and her right cheek was turned towards him. She could feel him, the warmth of his body against hers. Now her own heart was beating wildly, as she felt his breath coming in short bursts against her ear.

“It’s not pity, Malfoy. I truly am sorry.”

He grabbed her chin and turned her face towards his, glaring at her. She wondered why she wasn’t pulling away from him. This close, she could see the flecks of white in his gray eyes. So that’s why they always look like silver, she thought. It was the last coherent thought she could remember before his lips banged against hers.

He was kissing her. He pulled her body flush against his, so that she could feel the hard planes of his chest pressed into hers. His lips were warm, soft against her own and his breath was coming in short gasps. He said her name, Hermione, against her mouth and the sound of it shot straight through her. She could feel his fingers fisting in her hair, at her hip. Was she kissing him back? Were those her lips, treacherously moving against his? It was all a blur, heat and pressure and the way his eyes stayed locked on hers the entire time.

After a moment he pulled away slightly, his forehead pressed against hers. His breath ghosted over her face as he seemed to fight for composure. Hermione let her hand come up to trace the cut she had given him once again. The moment her fingers touched his skin he closed his eyes. She watched, fascinated, as a few tears squeezed out from beneath his eyelids.

She pushed forward, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him to her. He sighed once, dropping his head onto her shoulder. Hermione stared at the wall, feeling him breathing against her.


	2. Chapter Two

**London**

Hermione slipped out of the parlor before anyone had a chance to notice her presence. She had been sitting against the back wall, nose buried in a book, when they had all come in. Harry, Seamus and Ernie Macmillan were stumbling about, knocking into the furniture and each other, as Neville trailed after them carrying a very large bottle of firewhiskey. Their voices were raised in laughter and Quidditch chants as they collapsed onto the dusty couch. She really didn’t feel up to their boisterous gaiety, not right now. 

She quietly made her way up the stairs, passing the first and second floors before emerging onto the top floor landing. The rooms up here were vacant, it being too difficult to heat the upper levels in these cold winter months. She supposed that if they had to, the Order would billet some of them in these more uncomfortable quarters - but thank Merlin it hadn’t come to that. Although she really shouldn’t think that - the fact that there weren’t enough Aurors or junior members of the Order to fill the safe houses was a troubling one.

At the far end of the dark landing was a large picture window looking out over the east London skyline. Hermione climbed up onto the sill and began to unlatch the bottom panes. The icy wind whipped into the space, cutting through her robes and causing them to snap around her. She shivered, but pushed the window wide and stepped out onto the ledge. She stood, nothing between herself and a massive drop to the street below. To her left was an incline leading up to the roof, and she climbed carefully.

She had found this refuge last year, the first time she’d been assigned to this safe house. She made it a habit to explore every house she found herself at, trying to search out hidey-holes from which to escape the others. Most of her other refuges were merely abandoned pantries or linen closets, garden sheds or basement rooms. But this - this was her favorite. Although, it had been late summer when she’d found it. She hadn’t thought about how strong and how cold the wind would be this high up.

Wrapping her robes tight around her, she hunkered down beside the chimney stack and stared out at the glittering lights. All this, she thought, all this is what they were fighting for. Sometimes she forgot. Sometimes the Muggle world faded so far into the background and it was merely a fight for her life. On the battlefield it was her and them and which one could cast an Avada Kedavra first. 

As it had so many times in the past few weeks, her fingers rose and lightly pressed against her lips. The image of Malfoy’s tear-stained face rose in her conscious. The feel of his body heat against her, the way he had shuddered as his face pressed into her shoulder. Her own hands - on his back, gliding over his hair. It was too surreal.

After their uncharacteristic interaction had played out, after the sobs and spasms had finally faded, Malfoy had pulled away from her. For a moment it looked like he might say something, but then his eyes went blank and he rose. She had lumbered awkwardly to her feet, staring at his back. And then she had left. Turned and walked from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. He had been gone the next morning. 

Her fingers were cold against her mouth, as the wind howled around her. She grimaced slightly, feeling her lips curl under her fingertips. Most days she chalked it up to temporary insanity - post traumatic stress disorder or some such psychological trauma. She was sure that there could be a rational explanation for both of their behavior. The need for comfort in a world gone absolutely insane. 

But on nights like tonight, when the exhaustion threatened to send her reeling into unwanted sleep - she wondered.

\--

Draco Malfoy was angry. He was always angry, these days. The anger pulsed in his blood, went off like bombs behind his eyes. It was a boon on the battlefield - he was devastating, too quick for the Death Eaters who lumbered within range. Those who fought alongside him went back to their safe houses and dreamt of his pale face illuminated by the green light of his killing curses as they flowed like water from his wand.

Draco went back to his safe house and collapsed, every time. Into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was his only solace, that black void he was able to trip into whenever he laid his head on a pillow. But now - now there was a moment before sleep overtook him when a pair of warm brown eyes looked back at him and the feel of ghostly fingertips slid along his cheek.

Hermione fucking Granger. Of all the people to push into his room. Of all the people to see him in his most vulnerable moment. Merlin, what a joke. And it didn’t end there, of course it didn’t. Now she was haunting his thoughts, interfering in the one comfort he could grasp between the endless assault of battle. When he was on a mission he slept sitting up, against a tree or a wall, his senses on alert and his wand gripped in his fist. But at the safe houses, he looked forward to collapsing into the worn bedclothes and forgetting _everything_. No thoughts. No dreams.

So why the hell was she there? He supposed it was curiosity. The bitch had _punched_ him only weeks before, had baited him mercilessly and then assaulted him. And then, there she was, a warm body against his, her hands comforting him and her voice whispering into his hair. He had kissed her - don’t remind him. He knew he had. He preferred to forget that part, the way her lips had parted beneath his, the taste of her breath. The intensity of her eyes locked on his as his hand gripped her hair.

If it had been anyone else, Draco would have dismissed it as temporary insanity. But Hermione Granger? There wasn’t anything temporary about this - he must be out of his fucking mind.

\--

Hermione was clambering back through the window and onto the landing when she heard the front door three floors below slam shut. She could hear the boys still carousing in the living room, their laughter reverberating up the stairwell. Someone must have just arrived, she thought. Otherwise the rest of them would be looking for her. It usually meant bad news if someone had to leave the safe house this late.

She dusted off her robes and made her way to the stairs. Passing a mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall she peered at her reflection through the smokey glass and grimaced. Her curls stuck out wildly, riotously around her face. Smudges of dirt graced her cheek and her nose. Not to mention the perpetual shadows under her eyes or the general sunken look of someone who didn’t get enough sleep. Sighing softly to herself, she moved on and down the stairs.

Her gaze was on the floor when she reached the first floor landing so she didn’t notice the other person making their way down the hall until they had collided into each other. An arm shot out to keep her from falling back into the wall and pressed into her waist. She raised a hand and gripped their forearm to steady herself before raising her eyes, an apology on her lips. And froze.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger.”

Malfoy stared down at her, his eyes dark. She was hyper aware of his arm at her waist and the feel of his arm beneath her hand. She thought she should probably say something, a smart quip to keep some appearance of normalcy between them. But the words froze in her throat.

They stood there for what felt like minutes, but Hermione knew it was only heartbeats before Draco removed his arm and she unclenched her fingers. They both moved away. Hermione willed herself to walk at a normal pace towards the stairs and down, even though she wanted to run as fast as she could.

\--

Draco couldn’t sleep. Damn that stupid Muggleborn bitch. The feel of her against him in the hall, the way she had stared up at him and the smudges of dirt marring her warm skin. He tossed and turned, desperately trying to will himself into the black void of sleep. It escaped him, every time. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he gave up and levered himself out of bed. Throwing on his robes, he slipped out of his room and headed downstairs towards the kitchen. The parlor was littered with empty firewhiskey bottles - he had heard Potter and his friends getting pretty loud when he had arrived earlier that evening.

As he passed behind the couch, a strangled cry stopped him in his tracks. Frozen in place, he listened as a series of breathy whimpers and sobs emitted from what he thought had been a pile of blankets. Rounding the couch he lit his wand and peered down into the sleeping face of Granger.

Her hair fanned out around her, the curls looping wildly every which way. Her cheeks were flushed and he could see her eyes moving fast beneath the her eyelids. His eyes dropped to her hands as they clenched and unclenched on the blanket. She was twitching, her head moving from side to side. The sounds that she was making froze his blood - she was terrified. Another strangled cry broke out, then a sob. Tears streaked down her face as she whispered something too low to make out.

Draco straightened, prepared to leave her there and continue on to the kitchen. But another cry ripped from her throat, this time so full of fear that his heartbeat increased in sympathy. He dropped to his knees beside the couch and reached towards her.

The moment his hand grasped her shoulder, Hermione shrieked. But she remained asleep, her cries coming faster and real sobs beginning to wrack her too-thin frame.

“Granger! Wake up!”

He shook her gently, and then more forcefully. Finally he sat himself on the couch next to her and hauled her up into his arms. He shook her none-too-gently, until her eyes finally opened and she stared, horrified, into his eyes.

“It’s just a dream.”

She stared, shocked and stiff as a board. And then, as he watched, her face crumpled like a paper bag. Tears filled her eyes and slid unheeded down her flushed cheeks. She didn’t sob, didn’t cry out as she had when asleep, but the soft sound of her breath hitching was bad enough. She leaned into him then, pressing herself against him. She was trembling.

Draco sat rigid for a moment and then, with a mental shrug of his shoulders and a soft “Oh, bloody hell,” he let his arms wrap around her. An eye for an eye, he supposed. She shook against him, her breath hot against his collarbone. He let his palms trace circles on her back as she relaxed into him, her breath quieting and her trembling abating.

“What is this, Malfoy?”

Her voice, quiet and raw, emerged from that great cloud of hair that was currently tickling his face. He grimaced slightly, unsure of how to respond.

“What is what, Granger?”

She pulled away from him slightly, but not too far - as if she didn’t want to lose the contact. She peered up at him, her eyes bright with both tears and curiosity.

“This,” she said, tilting her chin slightly and flapping her hand in a vague motion, encompassing his arms around her and, he supposed, her arms around him all those weeks ago. And the kiss, he thought wryly. Let’s not forget about the kiss.

“I don’t know, Granger. I really don’t know.”

She nodded slightly, shrugging a shoulder as if to say “tell me about it.” But she didn’t move away. After a moment, she blushed slightly and ducked her head.

“Look, I think it has something to do with our...situation. The war, I mean. Spending so much time fighting - we’re so young - not a lot of time to live normally - being in these safe houses - I mean -”

“You mean we need this. Human contact.”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. Draco sighed.

“I guess I can understand that.”

She glanced up at him, clearly surprised. He smirked. She obviously hadn’t thought about big bad Draco Malfoy needing human contact. Well, it was a persona he had nurtured well.

Neither one of them mentioned the glaring fact that Hermione would probably have been more comfortable having “human contact” with Potter, or Weasel or any of the other young Gryffindor bucks. Draco pushed down the alarm bells ringing in his brain. It felt too good. He had to admit it. After seeing his father - after everything that had happened recently, including the ramping-up of conflict and casualties in the war - he needed this. She was right about that.

He tightened his arms around her, pulled her back against him. She relaxed into him, her head dropping to his shoulder as he lowered them back against the arm of the couch. She stretched her body out beside his, one arm flung over his waist. Then her warmth blotted away everything - having her there beside him made thinking about her null and void - and sleep finally, blissfully, overtook him.


	3. Chapter Three

Draco paced the length of his tiny room and back, his long legs making short work of the distance from one wall to the other. He was all nervous energy - he could feel the anxiety as a physical substance coursing through his veins. This was _ridiculous_. What had he gotten himself into? Sleeping on a couch with Hermione Granger, wrapping his arms around Hermione Granger, _kissing_ Hermione Granger! Admittedly, that last one had only happened once and they hadn’t mentioned it again - but still. It was there. It was part of this.

_Merlins balls._ He sank heavily onto his bed and lowered his head into his hands. This was a disaster. It must be the stress, caused by the war. There was no other explanation, no other reason for _needing_ her. If Draco couldn’t admit to anything else, he could admit to that. He _needed_ her. Or his body did. The feel of her stretched out alongside him on that couch had soothed some terrible part of him, calmed something that hadn’t been calmed in a long, long time. He remembered her explanation, that they needed human contact after all of the death and injury, the pain and torture. It made sense. A physical need, not connected in any way to conscious, rational thought.

For a moment, he wondered why his body had chosen a Muggleborn. Although he had renounced those views of his past quite a while ago, he expected some residual abhorrence to remain. He had believed it so strongly - that she was dirty, polluted, inhuman. It wasn’t an attitude that could be shrugged off like a cloak. But here he was, touching her with no sign of disgust. 

But she had been one of the reasons he had given up those views. He had to admit that to himself. It had been her intelligence, her innate goodness at school which had first planted the seeds of doubt. And that doubt had grown, twining around the hatred inside him until it had disappeared. It had been the eyes of the murdered witches and wizards on the floor of his ancestral home, as they lay where they’d fallen after round and round of Unspeakables, which had blotted hate out completely. But _she_ had planted doubt.

A scratching at the window caused Draco to start guiltily. With a rueful sigh, he rose and unlatched the window, letting the tawny owl alight on the sill. He took the parchment, gave the owl a treat which he kept near the window for just this purpose, and watched as it launched itself back into the brightening sky. Taking the parchment over to his one chair, he fell into it and sighed. He knew what this was. Another mission. And thank the Founders, it couldn’t have come soon enough. He needed to get out of here.

\--

Hermione hadn’t dreamed. She had slept, for the first time in almost two years, in a realm of blackness so silent and complete that she had woken gasping at the strangeness of it all. She was alone on the couch in the parlor, a worn wool blanket pulled up over her shoulders. She was warm and comfortable and, most importantly, calm. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spent a morning without the racing heartbeat and bone-tiring fear left over from her night-terrors.

She stretched languidly, hearing her jaw crack as she yawned. She had fallen asleep last night cuddled up against Draco Malfoy. She almost laughed aloud, it was so ridiculous. But Merlin, it had felt like the first real sleep she had ever had. Her mind was alert and rested this morning and her body, while still stiff in the places of old injuries, felt ready for anything. 

She stared up at the stained ceiling, absentmindedly kicking at the blanket wrapped around her legs. _Malfoy._ If this was the secret to fighting off her night-terrors, if Draco Malfoy was the solution - so be it. She was willing to make the sacrifice that extended time (in bed, oh Merlin) with that git would be to snatch restful nights of sleep. It was worth it.

She rose, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. It was late in the morning, she could tell by the sun slanting in through the cracks between the curtains. Dust motes glittered in the shafts of light as she made her way to the stairwell. On the first floor landing she paused, glancing towards the room Draco had been using. Should they talk about this? Work out some sort of arrangement? His words last night had made her feel as if he needed her beside him as much as she now knew she needed him. She straightened her back, clutching the blanket more tightly around her. Yes, they needed to discuss this rationally. Set out some ground rules.

She knocked lightly on the door to his room and waited. When no answer came, she knocked again. “Malfoy?” 

She pushed lightly on the door and was somewhat surprised to find it wasn’t locked. She swung it inward, stepped cautiously into the room - and froze. The bedding had been taken off the bed and, neatly folded, sat stacked on the side table. There was no sign of any luggage or personal belongings. He was gone. Hermione felt the fear begin to rise slowly, inevitably within her.  
\--

**Near Inverness, Scotland**

Hermione threw her pack heavily onto the bed and scowled at it. She was in a terrible mood. She had been in a terrible mood since London, three missions back. She knew it was true, even felt a bit of remorse for her sullen expression and clipped speech which made her former classmates and even some of the junior Aurors scamper out of her way. But she couldn’t help it. After that one night of blissfully silent slumber, her night-terrors had returned ten-fold. She woke sweating and shaking every morning, her hands clutching desperately at tangled sheets. It took ten minutes to calm her heart-rate and quiet the trembling in her limbs. A dull headache followed her wherever she went, only dissipating when on mission and her concentration would not allow the inconvenience pain would cause her. 

In fact, it had got to the point where she wanted to be in the field as much as possible. The nightly ordeals seemed muted when she was focused on a mission - or at least they didn’t seem to bother her as much. She was able to compartmentalize her emotions when out on the battlefield and she had no time for fear. But at the safe-houses it was a different story. At the safe-houses, it all came rushing back.

\--

**Sussex**

Hermione swallowed down a sense of _déjà vu_ along with her mouthful of Firewhisky. She was sitting in a warm kitchen, across the table from Seamus, Neville and Parvati, when Malfoy came stalking through the door. Neville stiffened and he and Seamus turned slowly towards Hermione, as if any sudden movements might set her off. She almost snorted, it was so obvious. Instead, she smirked at them and brought the tumbler back to her lips. Parvati, sensing something but unsure what it was, looked at each of them warily and laid her cards on the table.

Hermione glanced towards Malfoy, watching the planes of his back as he filled a glass from the sink faucet. He was thin and stooped, his normally proud posture now exuding exhaustion. His silver-white hair hung in his eyes, and Hermione felt her fingers twitch at the need to brush it aside. She remonstrated herself, clenching her fist at her side. She would fight this ridiculous need for him, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she still wondered if his body had been as warm and comforting as she remembered.

It was easier the further away they moved from that night. She was so numb most of the time that she didn’t feel the want for his warmth like she had those first few weeks. But every once in awhile, especially if he was near, she remembered. And in the mornings, as she fought with her racing heart and lay gasping in her sweat-soaked sheets, she remembered.

 

\--

**London**

Draco couldn’t help it, his eyes just seemed to inevitably end up on that head of riotous curls. Every time he saw her, the feel of her against him came pouring back into his mind. When she was gone he could imagine that he dreamt it, that it had been a figment of his overly-stressed imagination. But when they were in the same room that was impossible. He would begin remembering the feel of her fingertips on his cheeks, the curve of her breasts where they pressed into his side and the weight of her arm flung across his waist. The steady rhythm of her breath. 

Today was no different, as they sat across a conference table from each other in one of the larger safe-houses used as temporary headquarters for the Order. A heated discussion about bringing in foreign witches and wizards was happening at one end of the table. On the other end, Potter was re-capping the last six months in the field, trying desperately to see some sort of pattern in the Death Eater’s behavior. Draco half listened, his eyes flitting between Potter and Granger. 

She looked exhausted. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes and her hair was tangled even more than usual. She had tried to twist half of it back off her face, but curls had escaped and shot out every which way. She was too thin, he had seen as she entered the room how her jeans slung low on her hips and her t-shirt hung loose from her shoulders. There were scars and fresher cuts criss-crossing over her arms and the back of her hands. A particularly magnificent bruise bloomed out from beneath the collar of her shirt and spread halfway up her slender neck. Every so often she shifted in her seat and then grimaced in pain, hinting at more bruises in other places on her body.

Their relationship, or lack of one, had reverted to its original state since he had gratefully fled after that fateful night. Now, when they met each other in hallways or across conference tables, Draco could feel the simmering anger radiating off of her in waves. He guessed it was a combination of reasons which made her glare balefully at him whenever she was forced to make eye contact. She was embarrassed, confused, resentful and _scared_. He knew this because, truth be told, so was he.

\--

**Dover, South Hampton, Warwickshire, Aberdeenshire and Manchester**

Hermione floated. She floated through the safe-houses like a wraith, unsure if her feet ever touched the ground. These moments between fighting were hazy and inconsequential, as if they were some strange limbo between flashes of reality. It was an endless succession of bare rooms, lumpy mattresses, cheap meals and weak tea. Bottomless tumblers of Firewhisky. Faces flashed in front of her consciousness, blending into one another until she couldn’t remember who was sharing a roof with her at what time, whose footsteps pounded on the stairs, whose voices were raised in panic as yet another summons for guerrilla work came via owl.

She sustained injuries at some point - another _Vulnero_ across her shoulder blades from a Death Eater behind her position, a scrape, which made her right thigh resemble raw meat, from sliding down an embankment, a burnt palm from trying to shield her face from a hastily cast _Incendio_. All had been adequately healed and all still pained her with a dull ache.

She still wasn’t sleeping more than two or three hours a night. She still woke every morning with her throat raw from screaming. No one would meet her eye in the morning and this was how she knew that they could hear her. She didn’t even wonder why no one came to her - sometimes she heard them screaming too. They knew it would do no good.


	4. Chapter Four

**Near Bristol**

Draco _Apparated_ onto the front steps of the safe house with an audible _pop_ and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. He could feel the weariness like a heavy cloak, weighing him down until his shoulders stooped and his normally proud demeanor disappeared entirely. He was just too bloody _tired_ to keep up appearances. With a sigh, he heaved his pack over his shoulder and let himself through the front door.

The sound of voices wafted out from the parlor area to his right as he made his way through the entry hall. As he entered the room, he was hailed by some he knew and blatantly stared at by the rest. Their awe at seeing him in person was palpable and Malfoy experienced a pang of self-consciousness. Despite his bravado, he was never entirely comfortable with his celebrity status as one of the toughest warriors the Order employed.

Except now, as he had heard over and over again at the recent safe-houses and even in the field, his position as the Death Eater’s Public Enemy Number One was being unceremoniously usurped. And by Hermione Granger, no less. He had listened, slightly disbelieving at first, to tales told over glasses of firewhisky of her ruthlessness in battle. The years of constant warfare, it seemed, had molded the Gryffindor Princess into a regular Boadicea of the Wizarding World.

He had seen her, from time to time, at the safe-houses. Something had changed, he had to admit. There was a coldness to her that hadn’t been there before. She still smiled and laughed with her friends, but from a slight distance. The warmth in her brown eyes had vanished and Draco was terribly afraid of the numbness that seemed to have taken its place.

As the night wore on, Draco drank the firewhisky offered to him and laughed at the jokes being bandied about. Card games and impromptu sing-alongs broke out sporadically and there was a general feeling of hectic gaiety permeating the room. It was the same at every safe-house. The younger members of this war snatched laughter and held it to their breasts, refusing to let it go. Even though the world was slowly prying away their fingers, one by one.

\--

The sound of the front door slamming shut roused a few of the remaining revelers from their slightly drunken stupor. Draco levered his head around to glance through the door and saw a small group setting down their packs in the entryway.

“Finnegan! Weasley! Granger!” a florid faced young man to Draco’s left called out. “Get in here and help us finish this bottle!”

Draco grimaced a sour greeting to the Gryffindor men as they made their way into the room, shaking hands and nodding heads at the bleary eyed occupants.

“Bloody hell, Jones! There’s not much left,” Seamus said. “Good thing we brought our own!”

With a flourish, both men brought out bottles from beneath their cloaks to a ragged cry of approval from Draco’s drinking partners. Draco himself ignored them, his eyes trained intently on the figure still standing at the entrance to the room. Hermione leaned against the doorjamb, her face blank and her arms crossed tightly against her chest. She smiled slightly at her friends’ obvious pleasure at being somewhere warm and friendly and devoid of curses shooting from the shadows. 

“Hermione! Come join us,” Weasley said, holding his arm out in invitation.

“No, no, Ron. I think I’ll just go find my room and pass out, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted.”

Ron frowned slightly as she turned away, his forehead wrinkling in worry. His mouth opened as if he meant to argue, but it snapped shut almost immediately. 

“Here now, Ron, stop hogging the bottle,” Seamus said, snatching the bottle of firewhisky from Weasley’s hand. Ron shook himself slightly and turned back towards the others. As he did, his eyes fell upon Draco.

“Hullo Malfoy, haven’t seen you in a bit. Still dazzling everyone with your charm and wit?”

“Greetings, oh impoverished one. I see you are still blessed with that fine head of hair,” Draco said, grinning slightly at the familiar banter. He still detested the little weasel, but they had learned long ago that they could work together surprisingly well when a Death Eater was pointing his wand their way. The fact that Draco had saved Potter’s life a time or two also didn’t hurt. They would never be friends, but at least they weren’t trying to hex each other’s backsides off.

“Speaking of fine heads of hair, what’s all this I’ve been hearing about Granger lately? If the stories are to be believed, she’s turned into a regular Angel of Death these days,” Draco said, his eyebrows arching. Weasley grimaced and took a long drink from his glass. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sighed.

“Nah, not of Death. Hermione’s still too noble to kill unless she absolutely has to. But she’s...different. Tougher.”

“She’s bloody brilliant,” Seamus said. “She uses spells in ways I’ve never seen. Like Ron said, she doesn’t kill unless she has to, but the way she beats them down and then trusses them up like a Christmas present to the Ministry without a ‘by your leave’ is stunning.”

Ron nodded, his eyes trained on the door where Hermione had been moments earlier. For a moment he looked incredibly grieved, a fleeting look of loss passing imperceptibly over his face. But then it was gone and he brought his glass back to his lips, tossed it back as he drained it. His eyes met Draco’s and he grimaced.

“Yeah, bloody brilliant. But she’s changed. Hell, we’ve all changed. But Hermione - sometimes I don’t recognize her anymore.”

Ron turned back towards Seamus and the others, and Draco sat silently as their conversation turned to Quidditch. He mulled over what Weasley had said, turning the words over and over in his mind. He wondered why the thought of Weasley not recognizing Granger was one of the most terrifying things he’d heard in a long time. 

\--

Draco was coming out of the bathroom when he heard the screaming. At first, his instincts kicked in and his wand was instantly in his hand as he scanned the darkened hallway. He prowled towards the stairwell, every nerve quivering with anticipation. But as he neared the door he knew to be Granger’s, it became apparent that the screams were coming from behind it.

Of course. He sighed, pocketing his wand. Granger’s nightmares. They were almost as infamous as her deeds on the battlefield. Everyone who had ever been billeted with her in the past few years knew she suffered from them nightly, and nothing short of insomnia remedied them. Well, so everyone thought -- Draco might know better, but he pushed that thought down before it could engulf him.

He stood there, staring at the door. When had he moved towards it? He was standing so close that he could see the grain of the wood. On the other side, he could hear Granger whimpering. The sound hit him in the gut, taking him back to _that_ night. Her writhing form on the couch, the way she clung to him, the feel of her stretched out beside him - _no_! Merlin, no, he couldn’t think about that.

She shrieked again, a sound so full of terror that Draco’s breath hitched. Every physical part of him was screaming to go to her, but his brain was screaming right back that it was quite possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. She hated him! She wouldn’t welcome him again; she would hex him into next week if he so much as thought about opening that door. And, he had to admit, he was terrified of her. Of what she did to him.

Draco Malfoy stood outside Hermione Granger’s room and listened to every scream and sob she made. He stood outside her room and let each noise grate over him until he was shaking with the effort to keep his hand from reaching towards the doorknob. He leaned forwards, resting his forehead against the rough wood of the door. As he heard Hermione groan with fear, as he heard another round of sobbing tear from her throat, he pressed his palm flat against the door. He stood there all the rest of the night, until the sun began to slant in through the windows and until he heard Hermione jolt awake with a gasp. As the silence washed over him like a cooling balm, he pushed himself away from the door and walked away.

**Windlesham, Surrey**

Draco sat at the kitchen table and stared into space. The silence of the safe-house was oppressive. It was a rarity to be billeted somewhere alone - it had only happened to him a handful of times over the course of the war, and each one had been a horrible experience. Safe-houses were supposed to ring with laughter and the smell of food and alcohol. Even if he wasn’t partaking in the forced gaiety the fact that it was there helped ease him. The fact that he _could_ escape, even if it was for a tiny moment.

But here he was, alone, in this rambling pile. He glared morosely at the bottle of firewhisky that sat in front of him. He really should eat something before he started drinking in earnest, but he couldn’t be bothered. The best way to deal with this situation was to get blindingly, mindlessly drunk. And then pass out. Maybe someone would arrive in the morning or while he was asleep. Merlin, he would even take Potter and Weasley’s company over this.

He was pouring himself another drink when a sound from the front of the house made him freeze. The front door opening, shutting. Thank the Founders! Draco jumped from his seat, smiling, as he rounded the table and made for the door that led into the main part of the house. Stopping for a moment to school his features (it wouldn’t do to let whoever had arrived to see him so excited for company) he made his way towards the front. But as he moved through the rooms, the darkness and the silence made him slow until he paused in the shadow of the parlor door. He hadn’t heard anything after the sound of the door shutting. No footsteps on the tiles of the entryway, no pack hitting the ground. No voices. Nothing. 

With a growing sense of unease, Draco slipped his wand from his pocket and crept forwards. None of the lights had been flipped on and the parlor was in darkness. The entryway was all shadows - he could see parts of it through the parlor door. Light from the streetlamp outside made dim patches on the tiles. He moved forwards silently.

A small noise made him halt against the parlor wall. There it was again - a slight movement, fabric whispering against fabric. He waited, his heart hammering in his chest and his wand clenched in his fist. A low moan of pain broke through the overwhelming silence and made Draco stiffen. Someone was hurt. He moved towards the doorway, his wand out and trained ahead of him.

The entryway was a patchwork of light and dark. The looming front door was covered in darkness, but he could make out a figure hunched against it on the tiles. He pointed his wand towards it.

“Who are you?”

When the figure didn’t respond, Draco moved closer.

“Identify yourself!”

When there was still no response, Draco sighed, sending up a quick wish that he wasn’t being foolhardy before dropping to the ground beside the figure. He could smell the faint, metallic scent of blood. He reached out - and touched a mass of hair. His heart flipped. At the contact, the figure shifted and let out a shrill whimper of pain before falling sideways onto the tile.

Draco felt the panic rising in his throat, felt it clawing at his insides, as he looked down at the face which had landed in one of the dim patches of light. Dirty and bruised, Hermione Granger lay unconscious before him. Draco reached for her, his hand trembling, and froze as he noticed the crimson stain as it slowly spread out across the tiles.


	5. Chapter Five

_Dirty and bruised, Hermione Granger lay unconscious before him. Draco reached for her, his hand trembling, and froze as he noticed the crimson stain as it slowly spread out across the tiles._

“Granger!”

Draco’s voice rose in octave as his hands shook at her shoulders, pushed at her hair and slid through the slick blood that seemed to coat everything. He finally found her face - _damn her fucking bushy hair_ \- and cupped it in his palms. Hermione’s eyes were half-lidded and he could see them moving beneath her eyelids. But her color was bad and her breath was coming too slow and soft. 

“Hermione!”

When she didn’t respond, Draco eased his arm under her body, grimacing at the wetness and knowing it meant she was losing too much blood. He lifted her as swiftly and carefully as he could, staggering a bit when he saw the amount of blood staining the foyer tiles. Whirling away from the door, he launched them both towards the couch in the parlor. Once he had gently laid her down, he paused. Her gray blouse was crimson with blood, ripped and torn until it hung in ribbons down her chest. He could see what used to be her bra, the lace stuck to her skin and sticky with blood. His fingers trembled as he moved them towards her, passing them over her torso once before finally picking at the fabric.

The wound started at her collarbone and curved down her chest until it ended at her upper abdomen. Draco felt the nausea in waves as he tried desperately to ignore what could have been interior organs next to the whiteness of bone. He reached across and ripped what was left of her blouse, exposing her ruined chest. Pulling his wand from his pocket, he fought against the nausea and steadied his breathing.

_“Vulnera Sanentur.”_

When the blood flow began to lessen, Draco felt something inside him break loose. For one horrible moment he had thought she was too far gone. But the spell seemed to be working.

_“Vulnera Sanentur.”_

He made himself watch as the organs and bones and skin knit themselves back together. He stared as the magic went to work, afraid to look away in case something didn’t heal. But when he reached out and wiped the excess blood away with the palm of his hand, when he touched her healed flesh, a ragged breath escaped and he bowed his head.

_“Vulnera Sanentur.”_

The long, thin pit ,where the spell had sliced through her chest, faded. The raised tissue settled back into her skin, becoming less and less disfiguring. When the magic ceased, it was merely a rather nasty looking scar. 

Draco let his eyes travel up to her face. She was pale, so pale. Her eyes were fully closed now and Draco had to lean completely over to hear the breaths whispering from her mouth. _Shit. She’s lost too much blood._

Jumping to his feet, he raced into the kitchen. Throwing open the pantry door, he reached up and grabbed a small wooden box from the top shelf. Setting it on the table, he tapped it once with his wand and waited impatiently as it grew into a medium sized chest. Bless the Order and their foresight in putting first-aid kits in every safe house. He didn’t want to think about what he would do if this hadn’t been there.

Rummaging through the chest, he finally found what he was looking for. He hurried back into the parlor, throwing himself down beside the couch. Taking Hermione’s chin in his hands, he tipped the bottle of blood-replenishing potion to her lips and held his breath as the potion poured into her mouth. After the first dose, he sat back on his heels and watched her. 

At first the panic rose within him when her color stayed the same. But then, two faint roses bloomed on her cheeks and Draco watched in fascination as the life seemed to seep back into her skin. He gave her a second, smaller dose and then set to work placing the dittany on her scars. 

The shadows deepened and shifted across the carpet as Draco watched Hermione and continued administering the blood-replenishing potion. Her color slowly improved and her breathing levelled out, until Draco realized that if he ignored the mess of her bloody blouse and the blood smears on her face, she might have just been sleeping normally. Something else seemed to break loose inside him then, as his fingers ghosted over her cheek. He pulled himself up onto the couch, moving her legs until they rested on his lap, and leaned his head back. It wasn’t long until he too slipped mercifully into sleep.

\-- 

_The wind whispered gently over the grass, causing the slender blades to stroke against his cheeks. He lay supine beneath a great oak, staring up into the leaves and breathing in, out. The sun slanted across him, warming his skin and soul. It was a soft, quiet, calm day - unlike anything he had experienced in years._

_From far away, Draco heard a crash. He waited, still staring up into the leaves. Whatever it was could wait, he wasn’t finished lying here yet._

_The next crash was closer, and the next after that even closer still. But he smiled to himself, and continued to let the wind dance over his bared skin. He dug his fingers into the dirt beneath him, revelling in the cool damp of the earth. A large gust of wind sent the branches swaying and --_

Draco came awake with a start. A loud crash? Something hitting the wall? He shook his head, trying to shake off the remaining tendrils of his dream. The parlor was still pitch-dark. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaned softly. What had woken him?

He jumped again as the sound of glass breaking against something stationary jolted him fully awake.

 _What the hell?_ Draco pulled himself upright and rounded the couch, making for the door that lead into the kitchen. He swung the door inwards. Something flew towards him, glinting in the harsh overhead light. As his foot crossed the threshold, the glass hit the doorjamb beside his head and shattered, sending shards of glass flying.

Draco cursed and ducked, shielding his head with his arms. When the last of the shards had hit the ground, he raised back up and stopped. Hermione stood across from him, her hands covering her mouth and her eyes wide. Around her, on the ground and across the cabinets, lay the remains of practically every piece of glassware, crockery and china that had previously sat in the kitchen cabinets. Draco’s shoe crunched down on the mess as he took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s.

“Oh, Draco! I’m sorry, I didn’t - I mean, I never -” Her voice was soft, whisper-thin. He saw the bruises under her eyes and the way her hands trembled. When her legs gave way and she folded quietly towards the ground, he lunged for her and his knees slammed into the glass covered ground. He let out a cry of pain at the same instant that he caught her in his arms, shielding her from the shards and splinters.

“What. In Merlin’s name. Were you _doing_?”

She flinched, her cheek pressed against his chest. A low sob rippled through her body. His grip on her tightened as her face broke apart, the tears coursing down her pale cheeks. She was mumbling something between her sobs, the words wet and sodden. He leaned over her, trying to understand.

“He’s gone, he’s gone,” she moaned. “I could have been better. I could have been faster. I could --”

“Who’s gone? Granger! Who is gone?!”

Draco squeezed her to him tighter than he should have and the pain seemed to break through the haze surrounding her. She moved her eyes to his and locked them there. Draco sucked in a breath at the pain roiling behind her irises.

“Seamus. Seamus is gone.”

The breath caught in her throat as she sobbed, her body convulsing against his.

“I failed him, I was too slow. Too weak.”

Draco winced, the heavy feeling of grief so familiar as it settled back over him. He hadn’t been close to Seamus - hell, they weren’t even friends - but they had been in the same year at Hogwarts. They had fought beside each other. Every time one of his classmates died, another light seemed to shut off inside him.

He brushed her hair out of her face and looked down at her. Their eyes were still locked together, and her fingers had tangled themselves into his sleeve.

“What do you mean you were too slow?”

She took a breath, let it settle into her lungs.

“They had him cornered. Two of them. I could have killed them both but I thought I could stun them, send them to the Ministry. Before I could even get the first words out, before I could move they had Avada-ed him. I took too long making my decision. And then they saw me, and I was looking at Seamus and reaching out for him. I don’t know why they didn’t kill me too, maybe they wanted a plaything. But they hit me with a curse and then I saw Neville and Ron and then the Death Eaters were gone or dead or I don’t know. But it hurt and everything was going fuzzy and then Neville was there, right in front of me and he put something in my hand. And then it went black.”

Her words tumbled out in a rush as her eyes pleaded with him. Draco could feel her fingers spasming where they gripped his shirt sleeve. She took another breath, but it broke on a sob.

“He must have given you a Portkey,” Draco said. “He must have hoped it would take you to a safe house where someone could help you.”

It was a risky move. Neville must have known that most of the houses would be empty during a battle, the majority of their regular occupants already there at the battlefield. But he also knew that some of the Order members and Aurors would not have received summons for one reason or another and that there was a slight chance Hermione would have help. Neville must have taken one look at Hermione’s injuries and known that her only chance for survival was to Portkey out. 

“Seamus -” Hermione’s voice was a whisper again. The sobs came quicker now, wracking through her body. She choked, clutching his shirt and burying her face into his chest. Draco cradled her against him and rose, shifting her weight in his arms. He ignored the pain in his bloodied knees as his shoes crunched through the glass and out of the room. She continued to cry as he carried her upstairs. 

He kicked open the first bedroom door he came to and crossed the room, lowering her gently onto the bed. She curled on her side, facing him and let the sobs quiet slowly. The tremors still shook through her thin frame, but she watched him silently. He brushed her curls back from her cheeks, smiling softly as they bounced right back the minute he removed his hand. He slipped his wand out of his pocket and waved it towards his knees, whispering the spell that sent the glass shards dropping to the floor and the next that made the cuts heal. He kicked the pieces of glass under the bed and eyed the woman curled on top of the blankets.

“You should sleep.”

His voice was rough and, perhaps, too harsh for this situation. But the sight of her lying bruised and pale, the dried blood still staining her skin, made his heart ache.

“I’ll sit there,” he said, gesturing towards an armchair sitting next to the bed. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

He turned to walk towards the chair but she caught his hand in hers, curling her small fingers around his.

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes not meeting his. “Please lay with me.”

He stood silently for a moment, watching her. She didn’t remove her hand, but she wouldn’t look at him. Finally, he gently pulled his hand from hers and rounded the bed, crawling in beside her. He watched as some of the tension seemed to drain out of her shoulders as he settled into the bed behind her. But it was soon replaced with the trembling, as quiet sobs shook her again. Draco reached for her, pulling her towards him as she turned in his arms. 

They lay facing each other as she cried, his hands smoothing down over her shoulders and arms. And then, as the tremors quieted and her breathing hitched as she struggled to stop the sobs, she moved toward him and pressed her body against his. Her fingers dug into his forearms and he could feel the length of her body trembling against him. She pressed her forehead against his and he knew what was happening, he knew that some line was about to be crossed but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the heat they were sharing and the feel of her breath on his lips and the way her fingers shook as they held onto him for dear life.

When she finally pressed her lips against his, he moved, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her tighter against him, pressing their bodies together desperately. She gasped as his arms tightened around her, pushing the air from her mouth into his as he deepened the kiss. She whimpered, the sound shooting straight through him. One of his hands moved up her body until it cupped her cheek, his thumb ghosting across her cheekbone.

They broke apart, their foreheads still pressed together, their breath coming hard and fast. Draco could see the tears caught in her eyelashes and the two roses of color high on her cheeks.

“Hermione --” he whispered, his hand still pressed against her cheek. Her eyes rose, meeting his and he leaned forward again to kiss her slowly, softly. The first kiss had been bruising and now he soothed her, pouring all his care and comfort into her as his hands slid down her body and rested softly at her waist. He felt her shudder against him and then melt, the tension seeping out of her bones until she leaned languidly against him. The thought of a line being crossed drifted once again across Draco’s consciousness before he dismissed it to focus fully on the feel of her body against his.

\-- 

Draco had his share of notches on his proverbial bed-posts. An inflated confidence in school and the subsequent breakdown of all social norms during the war had contributed to many nights of meaningless sex. He was adept at the mechanics, even considered himself somewhat of an aficionado. But the sight of Hermione Granger trembling beside him, her wide brown eyes locked on his and the feel of her soft touch as her hands explored his face and torso had his control slipping like a randy fifteen year old.

His own hands were touching her as if, through their physical contact, she could set everything in his upside down life right again. The small sounds of pleasure she made set off fireworks in his brain and he pulled her tighter against him, desperate to mold their bodies together until neither of them could feel or think about anything else.

He had forgot to turn out the light in the room and the brightness added to the utter surreality of the situation. He watched as his fingers trailed up her arm, as her eyelids fluttered and her chest rose and fell. His own eyes remained wide as he pressed his lips against hers. When his hands slide underneath her ruined blouse and touched the smooth expanse of her stomach she stiffened against him, but he soothed her with more kisses. As he pushed the fabric up, he traced the fresh scar across her ribs with his lips, delighting in her soft whimpers.

The overhead light burnt steadily on as they moved together, their limbs tangling in the threadbare blankets. As they came together at last, their hearts beat wildly against their chests and Hermione’s cry rang in his ears. Draco watched her in wonder, feeling as if everything else in the world had somehow faded into the background of this one moment.

\--

“Hermione.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m sick to death of pretending I don’t need you.”

The words hung in the air like weights bearing down on her, pressing her limbs into the mattress and stopping her breath in panic. Draco’s face was above hers, their bodies still connected as she stared up at him. The silence stretched on interminably. As he waited for her to say something, she could feel her heart breaking beneath her ribs and it felt like a million knives lancing through her. The war, a moment ago so far away from this brightly lit room, crashed back into her consciousness like the Hogwarts Express barrelling through the fog.

She let her fingers trail across his cheek softly and he sighed, pulling himself away from her. As he settled beside her on the bed, her body screamed at the loss of contact and she felt cold, colder than she had ever felt in her life. His arms came around her then, pulling her to him, crushing her against his chest with a quiet desperation.

“Stay with me. Don’t ever leave me.”

She didn’t answer him, feeling sleep pulling her under as her cheek pressed into his chest and the steady rhythm of his heart beat ominously in her ear.

\--

Draco woke in the brightly lit room and he knew without opening his eyes that she was gone. The bed felt overly large and empty and the noise the damned birds were making outside the window was obscene. He let his hand fall palm down on the space beside him, hoping to feel some reminder of the warmth she had lent him in the night. But the sheets were cold.


	6. Chapter Six

**London**

Hermione stretched her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes so the muscles in her calves gave a satisfying stretch. Curling her legs beneath her, she wrapped her fingers around the mug of firewhiskey on the scarred wooden tabletop. Across the table from her, Harry and Ron were fiddling with the dials on the wireless and discussing Quidditch stats. Marcus Flint was absentmindedly shuffling a deck of cards next to her and Hermione watched lazily as Hannah, Parvati and Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet. There hadn’t been a mission in days, and the junior Order members in the safehouse were enjoying the quiet comfort of companionship and liquor. Seamus’ absence still hung like a pall, but they had all become so used to dealing with loss. 

Voices rose from beyond the kitchen door and Ron’s head whipped around.

“Someone’s just arrived,” he said, his voice low and worried.

Harry sat back from the wireless, setting his wand on the table and half turning his body towards the door. Everyone stilled around her and Hermione gripped her mug a bit tighter. _Please don’t be a summons,_ she thought. _None of us want to go back to work._

The voices grew louder and they could hear footsteps now and heavy noises that could be packs hitting the floor. They didn’t sound hurried or urgent, just a general rumble of indistinguishable words and phrases. The door swung open and a clutch of bodies pushed through. Hermione recognized Neville first, his long frame hunched as he shrugged out of his coat. Behind him, framed in the doorway as he raised a hand to whoever stood out in the hallway, was Malfoy.

Hermione felt the bile rise in her throat and she swallowed hurriedly. Her fingers spasmed on the mug and she quickly raised it to her lips, taking a long drink of firewhiskey and focusing on its hot slide down into her stomach. Her eyes snapped away from the blonde haired figure in the doorway and met Harry’s as he contemplated her. His eyebrow quirked -- a question. She shrugged, taking a deep breath to try to forestall the bloom of a blush she knew was probably heating her cheeks.

She didn’t look at him, but she could track his movements around the kitchen. Every sense was at high alert, as if just his physical presence drew something out of her. Flashes of memory burst behind her eyelids -- skin and lips and words. She took another drink.

Malfoy had noticed her. His cold stare took in her rumpled clothing and wild hair, the reddening cheeks and stiff posture. She could feel him daring her to look at him. She let her eyes track to his and for one second her breath held. He regarded her blankly, body leaned against the cabinets and arms crossed against his chest. Hermione was the one to look away.

She had been avoiding him. Ever since that night, when she had silently dressed and stood trembling at the side of the bed, and watched the slow movement of his breaths as he slept. Ever since that night when she had left him, naked and sleeping, as she slipped like a coward out of the door. Ever since that night she had only seen him from a distance on battlefields and in safe houses -- he entered a room and she left. She was going to leave now.

She set her mug down on the table and smiled across at Harry and Ron.

“That’s me empty,” she said, her voice light. “I’m off to bed.”

Ron waved at her absentmindedly, his wand trained on the wireless. Harry gave her a measured look, his eyebrow still quirked. Hermione felt her face heat again and she rose from her chair. She bent over Harry and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek, squeezing his shoulder. His hand came up and covered hers, his eyes worried. He opened his mouth but Hermione cut him off.

“I’m fine, Harry,” she whispered, 

His hand dropped and his eyes flicked over Hermione’s shoulder. He turned back to her and nodded.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

She straightened, giving a halfhearted wave to the room. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes tracking her and it took every ounce of composure to keep from bolting through the door. 

\--

Hermione drew her robes tighter around her body. There was a chill tonight, and the wind whipped her curls around her face. She shifted her weight on the roof tiles, settling her body closer to the chimney stack. She breathed in a deep breath of cool night air, imagining it clearing out the warm haze of the kitchen. She had come up, grabbing her robes on the way, and straight out the window. It was too close and confined inside -- she couldn’t think. She pressed her temple to the cold brick, eyes trained on the flickering lights of the skyline.

She was so far into her thoughts that she didn’t take notice of the sound of scraping against roof tiles. It wasn’t until a voice rang out, clear and cold as the air, that she snapped out of her trance.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco stood at the bottom of the incline, where the roof flattened off in front of the window leading into the house. One hand gripped the edge of the window and his robes snapped around him. His face was pale in the moonlight and his eyes were trained on her.  
Hermione sat as still as a frightened deer, her eyes darting around her as she realized there was nowhere for her to go. He had her trapped.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Granger.”

She inhaled, gulping the air into her lungs and expelling it in one long rush. Gathering the shreds of her courage around her like robes, she straightened where she sat.

“Of course I’ve been avoiding you, Malfoy. Are you surprised?”

She was proud of how steady her voice was, even though her insides were trembling.

“Surprised? Not really, no. I’ve always thought that nonsense about Gryffindor bravery was overblown. But I will admit that I expected more from you, the Brightest Witch of Her Age.”

“I think it’s rather clever of me to extricate myself from a situation that isn’t one of my liking,” she said, her chin rising. She knew she sounded arrogant and ridiculous, but Merlin help her he brought out the worst in her. 

His eyes flashed and his jaw clenched. He was angry. Hermione could feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. Her fingers stretched and she felt her wand at her hip.

“Gods damn it, Granger, you are going to listen to me! You are going to sit there and you are going to bloody well listen,” he snapped, his voice tight with anger and frustration. His ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Hermione watched as the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving behind the frustration and a heavy sense of sadness. His eyes met hers with such intensity that her breath left her and she felt pinned in place, unable to look away. Malfoy inhaled, the breath shuddering in his chest.

“I need you Granger. I need you so much that it’s a physical pain. Something rights when you are near me, something I can’t put my finger on but _it is there_. I know you feel this,” his hand waved in the space between them. “I know you need me too. I know that you don’t have night terrors when you are with me and I know you sleep soundly. Your body responds to mine. But it isn’t all physical -- you are smart and brave and powerful. You are an insufferable know-it-all and you drive me to insanity, but, Merlin knows why, we just _fit_!”

Hermione stared at him, her heart pounding wildly in the confines of her chest. His words echoed around her. She could feel the fear rising within her, seeping through her veins and constricting her heart.

“You’re delusional, Malfoy. We are terrible together! We push every button, we yell and argue and drive each other crazy. All we do is fight!”

His shoulders slumped in a slow shrug, his face showing the strain of his confession and standing in the wind. His hand clenched against the edge of the window and his eyes closed, as if he was centering himself. Hermione waited, unable to look away from him. He looked as bone tired as she felt. His eyes opened and he looked at her sadly.

“In case you haven’t noticed, right now _life_ is a fight, Granger. At least our fights make me feel alive.”

He turned away from her then, and slipped back through the window. Hermione watched him go as the wind howled around her.

\--

Hermione pushed through the door and crossed the kitchen. Harry and Ron had abandoned the wireless and were engaged in a loud game of poker with Neville and Marcus. The girls had moved into the parlor and Hermione could hear them shrieking in laughter over something. She pointed her wand at the kettle and cast a quick _Aguamenti_ before turning to light the stove. She was reaching into the upper cabinets for a clean mug when the door opened and someone entered. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she knew it must be Malfoy. She dropped back onto her heels and took a breath, setting the mug onto the counter.

“Oi Hermione, can you make me a cuppa?”

Ron’s voice shook her to attention and she turned, smiling at him. Harry raised a finger and Hermione’s gaze flitted to Neville and Marcus. They grinned and raised their cups of firewhiskey. She nodded and let her eyes sweep the room, coming to a rest on Malfoy where he stood beside the pantry. 

“How about you Malfoy? Tea?”

His eyes met hers across the room and Hermione held her breath. He nodded at her, a question in his gaze. She blushed and ducked back towards the cabinets, rising on her toes to pull down three more mugs. The boys at the table resumed their game and she didn’t hear Malfoy moving until he was right beside her, his shoulder sliding against hers as he reached for the sugar. Her breath caught in her throat at the contact and warmth bloomed low in her belly. She bit her lip, staring at the kettle. She felt the tears threatening behind her eyelids and she cursed herself for her weakness. Damn him and damn her body for reacting to him.

She made the tea and divvied out the mugs, leaving one on the counter for Malfoy. She hurried out of the room and towards the stairs, desperate to be behind her closed bedroom door.

She was halfway up the stairs when she whirled around, tea sloshing out of her mug. Malfoy was below her, his own mug in one hand and the other on the banister.  
“What are you doing?”

Her voice is ragged, hitching in her throat. She backed up the stairs as he followed her, his eyes never leaving hers. When they were both on the first floor landing, she stopped and set her teeth, trying desperately not to cry.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”

“I’m following you,” he said softly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 

She wanted to scream, wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. She wanted to cry. Instead, she sat her mug down on the hall table and rounded on him. She stalked forward, her body taut with emotion.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

She pushed him, her palms hitting his chest. He rocked back on his heels, and then steadied himself. She pushed him harder and his mug slipped out of his fingers and hit the floor, tea splashing onto the carpet. Hermione sobbed, her hands coming up to push him again. Quick as a cat, Malfoy grabbed them and pulled her towards him. He crushed her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her and holding her against him. She struggled weakly against him, her tears streaking down her cheeks. He was silent, just standing there holding her as she stilled against him, letting her forehead fall against his shoulder. She trembled and his hand splayed across the small of her back, pressing her into him. 

His other hand came up and slid along her neck and into her hair. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her face away so that they stared into each other’s eyes. His thumb wiped the tears from her cheeks. Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of him against her and his breath against her face. She felt something inside her give with a sigh, some coiled part of her releasing under the soft pressure of his fingers. She opened her eyes and closed the distance between their lips. 

He kissed her with so much deliberate care, his fingers catching in her curls to pull her closer. She let her arms loop around his neck, stretching herself against him until their bodies touched in as many places as possible. After a moment, she pulled away, sucking in a breath and watching as he reacted to her. His eyes are dark and his breath was coming fast.

“I need you, Draco.”

Her voice was whisper quiet, a thin ribbon in the quiet hallway. His hand clenched at her hip, pulling her to him. She could feel his smile against her lips.

\--

Later, as she lay curled against his body, Hermione wondered how it would work. They would fight, of course they would. She smiled to herself as Draco’s arms pulled her closer against him, his bare chest slick with sweat against her back. He made a show of pushing her curls away from his face and she laughed, rolling her eyes. He chuckled, the sound rumbling through her.

The room was dark and close. The sound of the poker game below them droned on and somewhere out in the Muggle world a car honked. Draco’s lips were tracing a path down the curve of her neck. The war was outside the door, across a field somewhere or just a Portkey away. It was still there, waiting. Hermione shivered and Draco bit down lightly at the dip of her shoulder. His hands smoothed the taut skin of her stomach in slow, comforting circles. She could feel sleep seeping along the edges of her sight, as her body melted back into his. 

Just before sleep overtook her, a thought flashed across the back of her eyelids. Maybe this was right, maybe this was how it should be. Maybe all the fighting and loving could keep the war from pulling her too far under. Her heart beat slowly against her chest and she sighed as she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much! This fic was started way back in 2014 and abandoned when I had my first kiddo. It feels really good to get back into the Dramione game and I already have so many plans for more.


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